


Eden

by cardinalrachelieu



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Smut, Unrequited Love, aka the 'tessa and scott fucked in 2012' fic, in which scott tumbles headlong into lovelorn hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 05:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13968573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu
Summary: “No kissing,” she says, and there’s a slight waver in her voice.He nods once, doesn’t trust himself to say anything in reply.Her chest rises and falls, and he understands the fear she refuses to speak aloud. Kissing is too intimate. They might be able to survive a casual fuck, but making love would utterly destroy them.And it absolutely incenses him that she’s right.---or,'temptation doesn't always take the form of shiny, red apples, and ruin doesn't always come at the hands of an angry, slighted god'





	1. tell me how it ends

**Author's Note:**

> you can find my dignity back in 2017 :)

**_October 2012_ **

_Scott’s Flat in Ilderton, ON_

_8:21pm_

 

* * *

 

“We should have sex.”

Scott chokes on his sip of beer, foam and spittle landing on the back of the hand he brought up just in time to protect T’s face from the worst of it.

She leans forward, places a palm on the swell of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He’s hallucinating. It’s the only explanation. Hand curled around his pint, he lifts up a finger and nods, tries to get his lungs back in working order. Tess pats his back, concern pulling on her brows, and he continues to cough even after the spell has passed—just to give himself an extra few seconds to _think._

It’s the middle of October, nowhere near any sort of holiday involving pranks—which Tessa’s never been a fan of in the first place—and her voice doesn’t have that odd lilt to it like it normally does when she’s messing with him.

Then he notices her empty wine glass, remembers this dinner was her idea, thinks of how skittish she’s been the entire evening, sees the way her knuckles are turning white as she squeezes her hand into a fist underneath the glass tabletop.

She’s serious.

Scott narrows his eyes. “Where’s this coming from, T?” It’s not the question he meant to ask.

She shrugs, but it lacks commitment. “Dunno.”

Nope. No way she’s getting away with that answer. She can’t just invite herself over for dinner after training and casually suggest they fuck and expect him to go along with it, no questions asked, so he raises an eyebrow and waits.

Silence sprawls messily between them, each second punctuated by the hands of the analog clock hanging on the wall above Tessa’s head.

_Tick, tock._

She stares at him, stubborn, and yields nothing.

_Tick, tock._

Patience has never been his strong suit, but he’s determined.

_Tick, tock._

She blinks once, twice, and on the third time her resolve crumbles. “I just… want to know what it’s like,” she says, voice small, and maintains eye contact for half a second longer before her gaze darts elsewhere.

Scott tilts his head, furrows his brows, and for one dizzying, ridiculous second, he allows himself to believe that Tessa Virtue just admitted to fantasizing about sex with him. Admittedly, the boost to his ego is immediate and invigorating, but then reality blurs back into focus. _Surely not,_ he thinks with a dismissive huff. If Tessa wanted to fuck him, she’d have done it already—because heaven knows he wouldn’t have stopped her.

No, that’s not what she meant.

Probably.

Scott shakes his head, tries to scramble his thoughts just as he would an eight ball. To his surprise, it seems to work—until he’s assaulted by a memory from practice earlier in the day. It’s his hand curled around Tessa’s thigh as she bends low. It’s her mouth parted as her green eyes turn dark with an intense, desperate hunger. It’s the thought that what if… what if she hasn’t really been acting during their rehearsals for Carmen?

_Don’t be ridiculous, Moir._

But the damage has been done because here’s the thing about thoughts: they’re sticky little devils. Once you have them, they refuse to fade back into non-existence, clinging to any memory they can latch themselves onto. Tragically, Scott has no shortage of memories involving Tess looking at him with barely restrained want.

She pushes out a nervous breath, and his attention snaps back to her. “I’m tired of waiting,” she mumbles, eyes trained on the carpet he should really get around to vacuuming sometime this week.

Waiting? Waiting for what? The stars to align? Is the fucking _Cosmos_ to blame for this five year tango they’ve been doing off the ice? And what does she mean she _wants to know what it’s like_ —

Scott goes utterly still, stares at her until she’s brave enough to stare back.

 _No,_ he thinks.

Tessa’s throat bobs, and a pink flush creeps over her collar bones.

_There’s no way._

She presses her lips together.

“You haven’t…” He’s not sure how to finish the question lurking in his thoughts, not sure if he wants to put language to it.

Tess sighs. “No.” The word is heavy.

“But I thought—”

“We never did.” She shakes her head and drops her eyes, and something broken churns just underneath her porcelain skin, settles in the small lines of her frown.

“Not even that one night—”

“Nope.” The word is a sharpened dagger, but Tessa wields it with grace.

Then the purpose of this evening catches up to him, and it’s like someone presses pause on his entire being. Scott feels his features freeze, knows the exact expression he’s wearing, lips formed around the beginnings of another question he can’t seem to get out. He’s vaguely aware that time is still moving forward, but he’s powerless to snap himself out of it.

_Tessa. Virgin. Sex. Him._

It’s all so much so fast. Why now? Why him? What if he refuses? Oh, God— _what if he agrees?_

“Scott, say something.”

“Huh?” They’re both standing now. When did that happen?

Tess looks up at him, eyes watery and lower lip quivering.

Scott knits his brows together, brings a hand to her jaw. Why is she—

“Oh, kiddo—c’mere.” He wraps her in a crushing hug just as a tear crawls down her cheek. Scott pulls a face she can’t see, wants to strangle himself for letting her stand there for God knows how long while he was trapped in his own mind. “I’m sorry,” he says into her hair, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head for good measure. “I’m an idiot.”

T buries her face in his sweatshirt, and he slips into their slow pattern of breathing, rubs soothing circles over her back until each of her inhales match his.

Scott’s always believed the story of original sin to be a bit dramatic, with its gold-gilded apples and its smooth taking snakes. More than that, though, he's always questioned the allegory's central message. Why should knowledge lead to ruin? Why is enlightenment something to be feared? But he understands now. It’s not the knowledge that’s the problem, it’s the possibilities one’s capable of dreaming up _with_ the knowledge. And for the first time in his entire life, he allows himself to consciously wonder if Tessa Virtue tastes as sweet as the forbidden fruit from the myth.

His hands trace steady curves up and down her spine, across her shoulder blades. It’s the most natural thing in the world to touch her, hold her, comfort her. Would sex be so different? Would it be so bad—to give into the temptation just this once? He’s not a perfect lover by any stretch of the imagination, but he knows Tess, knows her body, and he’s fairly certain he could make her feel good.

Tessa’s arms fall to her sides, limp. “Forget I even asked—”

“Of course I’ll sleep with you,” he says at the same time.

She goes rigid in his embrace.

“Unless you don’t want to,” he blurts out, fingers briefly pausing in their task before he remembers to keep them moving. There’s a terrifying beat of silence between them, where she stops breathing and he brainstorms no less than seven ways he could play this off as—

“Really?” Tessa says softly, hopefully, and gently pushes against him.

Scott lets her pull away, and when she looks up at him, he nods.

She drags the heel of her palm across her cheek, smearing fresh tears into her blush. Scott doesn’t recognize this particular shade of rosy-peach, but it suits her. It’s close to the color her skin turns in the middle of a routine, when she’s panting and focused and _alive_.

“I’d do anything for you,” he whispers, and realizes a moment too late that, while the sentiment is right, the intensity is all wrong. He clears his throat and reaches for her hand, brings it up to his mouth for a quick kiss. “But, Tess…” he continues, fingers still clasped around hers, “why me?”

Her gaze stutters to the ground. “You know why…” She draws a shaky breath, sighs it back out, purses her lips when she swallows.

Trust has never come easily to her, but she trusts him. He just never realized she trusted him like _this._ “Yeah.” Something stirs in his gut. Excitement, terror, anxiety, caution— _desire._ It’s nearly enough to knock him prone. “So I guess this means I’ll be…”

“My first.” She sighs. “Yeah.”

Scott drops her hand and reaches for his pint glass and upends the damn thing, figures it’s impossible to say something dumb if his mouth is full.

“If you’re not comfortable with this—”

He clumsily sets the glass back down with a _thunk_ and grips her face. “Tess,” he says, her cheeks caught between his hands so she has no choice but to meet his gaze, “are you s—”

“I’ve thought about it, Scott.”

Of course she has. Tessa won’t even order at a restaurant unless she’s had a full twenty minutes to read the menu and weigh her options.

Delicate fingers curl over his wrist and squeeze. Her eyes are honest when she says, “This is what I want.” There’s no bend in her tone, no doubt.

He gulps. “Okay.”

The sigh she releases is small, but there’s no mistaking the relief that crests over her features. “Okay,” she repeats.

He kisses her forehead and holds her close and hopes she can’t hear the way his heart pounds inside his chest. It’s second nature to quash rogue, unprofessional thoughts, to compartmentalize his emotions and ignore, ignore, _ignore._ And now she’s asking him, point blank, to fuck her.

‘Whiplash’ is the understatement of the decade.

“So,” he says on an exaggerated exhale, “when did you want to—”

“Now.” The response is immediate and confident and yet another thing Scott wasn’t expecting.

His eyes go wide, hands tightening around T’s shoulders. “Like… _right_ now?”

She drops her head back to look at him, dark brows pinched together. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he says entirely too quickly. A string of uninventive curses shouts through his mind, but he plasters on a thin smile and does his best imitation of relaxed-Scott. “Yeah, just… give me five minutes?”

Tessa nods.

He sighs with relief. “Right, uh”—he releases her and gestures toward the couch—“make yourself comfortable, I guess?”

She shoots him a grateful smile and squeezes the upper part of his arm. Is it meant to be sexual? Is she just trying to be friendly? He can’t tell anymore. He’s been launched into a parallel dimension, and whatever frame of reference he’d been clinging to is of no use here.

 _This is weird,_ he thinks. _This is so fucking weird._

The moment her back is turned, he lunges for the bathroom—with all the grace of a newborn antelope. The pain of his shoulder clipping the doorframe is secondary to the pain of embarrassment, though, so he swallows the yelp and quietly shuts the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

_Holy fuck._

As the world keels underneath him, Scott slams his palms into the faux-marble countertop, grips the ledge, and hangs on for dear life.

_Holy fucking fuck._

His vision blurs, and he realizes a moment later it’s because he’s hyperventilating.

_Breathe, dumbass._

His lungs are sluggish to respond, but eventually his breaths slow and his arms stop shaking quite so much.

 _So you’re gonna have sex with Tess,_ he thinks, tries to make it sound as boring as possible. _It’s not a big deal._

His heart beats out a panicked rhythm as he stares at himself in the mirror.

_Pull it together, Moir._

Scott turns on the faucet and splashes a handful of cold water on his face. It does nothing to help.

 _You can do this,_ he tells himself. _It’s just Tessa._

He nearly chokes on a laugh. _Just Tessa_ is an oxymoron. As if Tessa could ever _just_ be anything.

“You can do this,” he whispers aloud. Positive self talk always works wonders before a performance. Why should now be any different?

Yeah. Yeah, he just needs to psych himself up. That’s all. Tessa caught him off guard, and this is just a classic case of performance anxiety, nothing more.

Scott puffs up his chest and straightens his spine and looks himself dead in the eye when, in a harsh whisper, he says, “You’re gonna go back out there, and you’re gonna bang your good buddy Tessa, and you’re gonna keep your feelings out of it, and everything’s gonna be fine.”

As far as pep talks go, it’s not a great one, and what little confidence he manages to recruit goes scampering away as soon as he releases the breath he’d been holding.

Scott slumps forward, elbows on either side of the sink, drops his head into his hands, and groans. _I am so fucked._


	2. so i surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have some porn
> 
> nihil sanctum est, don't @ me

**_October 2012_ **

_Scott’s Flat in Ilderton, ON_

_8:37pm_

 

* * *

  

Scott’s hand lingers on the lightswitch just inside the door, arm stretching behind him as he steps back into the warm, yellow glow of the lamp-infested living room. He should really invest in proper lighting one of these days, the kind that matches the rest of the decor. Since turning twenty-five, he’s noticed more and more that he’s less of an adult and more of a boy wearing an adult-shaped mask. One of these days everyone will see through the charade, and then he’ll really be in trouble.

He soundlessly flips the switch and pads into the living room.

His eyes easily find Tessa. She’s in the same spot she was before he locked himself in the bathroom and temporarily lost his sanity. Dark hair gathered in a messy bun, she’s perched on the edge of the couch, back ramrod straight.

There’s an acoustic song playing softly through the stereo speakers, but her fingers outpace its relaxed beat, _tap tap tapping_ against a mesh stripe of her black leggings. She does the same thing before competitions, lets her nerves build and build until she’s fit to burst. He should know, he’s always the one to cover her jittery hands with his own, to remind her to breathe, to help her vent some of the restless energy that steals her confidence.

But right now he’s across the room and she hasn’t noticed him yet, lost in her own little world as she stares at a wall decorated with medals and ribbons and trophies and plaques, each bearing their surnames—a lifetime of accomplishments condensed into a bookcase twice as wide as him. Maybe she’s just as nervous as he is. Maybe she’s decided this is a stupid idea. Maybe she’ll rescue them both from what he’s sure will be a monumental mistake.

Not much rattles him, but this has. Breaching this invisible boundary… it terrifies him to his core. He recalls all the times his coaches have told him to do what scares him most. _I don’t think this is what they had in mind,_ he muses, feels that gnawing thing in his gut grow bolder.

But fear is fear is fear, and the only way to master it is to face it head-on.

_Stop stalling._

Tessa stands bolt upright when he clears his throat. It’s somehow comforting that she’s nervous, too.

She clasps her hands in front of her and looks at him expectantly.

Right. He’s in charge. (He shushes the bark of laughter that rings deep in his mind.)

Scott doesn’t trust his voice so he gestures with an upturned palm toward the narrow hallway beside him, the one that leads to his bedroom.

Tessa dips her head and takes soft steps forward. She pauses in front of him and breathes deep, gives him the same look she always does just before they take the ice at a competition. Only… only he’s never seen her look quite so determined.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks. _We’re really doing this._

His hand finds the small of her back before he can think better of it. Old habits and all that.

She flinches but then leans into the touch, grounds herself against his palm, slows her steps just enough so his chest presses against her back. He kisses her temple and rubs some warmth into her upper arm, tightens his fingers around her bicep as they walk through the threshold.

Scott’s bedroom is nothing fancy, cream walls and tan carpet and navy curtains Tessa picked out and made him hang up because _everyone needs curtains, Scott._ There’s a dresser in the corner and a Maple Leaf’s flag on the wall to the right, and he keeps meaning to decorate the room properly, but so much of his time is spent in Canton that he loses his motivation each time he tries.

One day.

Tess turns in his arms, leans past him, and with a sharp _click_ the room is thrown into darkness.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks. _Yeah, it’s better this way._

There’s shelter in the shadows, a protection that’s saved them in the past—in a dimly lit locker room when she was fifteen and he was sixteen, in a car after midnight when she was eighteen and he was twenty, in the middle of a dance floor when she was twenty-one and he was twenty-two. Darkness holds secrets the light betrays, and sometimes denial is the only way to live.

But all those _almosts_ are nothing compared to this, in his empty apartment when she’s twenty-three and he’s twenty-five.

Golden rays from the hallway carve harsh shapes into the floor, the bedspread, the far wall. He guides her deeper into the shadows, back and back and back until the darkest corner welcomes them both into its embrace.

Scott pins her with his hips, settles a hand on her waist.

 _This is it,_ he realizes. _This is the night things change._

A peaceful warmth roils inside him, a feeling of certainty, and he finally does what he’s wanted to do for years: he closes the last bit of space between them—

She jerks away.

Scott freezes.

Green eyes search his, frantic as they shift from side to side. “What are you doing?” It’s a strained murmur, an accusation.

Fear prickles at the base of his spine, a deep sort of terror that feels like gravity, that pulls on him and whispers doubt into each breath. “Um…”

“No kissing,” she says, and there’s a slight waver in her voice.

He blinks, nods once, doesn’t trust himself to say anything in reply.

Her chest rises and falls, and he understands the fear she refuses to speak aloud. Kissing is too intimate. They might be able to survive a casual fuck, but making love would utterly destroy them.

And it absolutely incenses him that she’s right.

Scott splays his fingers over her neck, pivots his thumb so he’s got her whole throat in his palm. She licks her lips and swallows.

Slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving hers, he angles her jaw to the side. _Fine,_ he wants to say, half-mad with desire as her pulse drums underneath his fingertips. _No kissing._

And then his mouth finds her neck. It doesn’t count as kissing if it’s not on the lips, he rationalizes, and the sigh she rewards him with tells him she agrees. He releases her throat and unzips her grey lycra jacket, discovers it’s been hiding a cerulean blue sports bra.

Notes of lavender and lemongrass cling to her skin, clean and bright and soft. Scott smooths his palms over her ribs, around her back, tugging her close as he grazes his teeth over her neck, her shoulder.

She hisses in a breath. Something’s wrong.

“You’re tense,” he says, pulling back to look at her.

“I’m fine.”

Scott rocks his head back and looks down his nose at her, quirks an eyebrow for extra emphasis.

“Really,” she insists, but her teeth stay clenched the whole time.

He steps back and pulls his sweatshirt over his head, takes the cotton tee underneath with it, and lets both pieces of fabric fall to the ground in a heap. “Here.” Scott gestures to the bed. “Lay back.”

Her gaze goes dark as her eyes rake over him. “Why?” she says, voice distant, teeth sinking into her lower lip as she continues to stare.

 _God,_ he’s wanted her to look at him like that for so long, _so_ long. “You need to relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

Scott almost snorts. “Did you forget who you were talking to?” Anyone else and she might’ve been able to fool them. Her smile is the right amount of soft and her head is tilted to the side in that sweet sort of way—but her shoulders. They’re doing that thing where they creep toward her ears.

She seems to pick up on her tell a moment later, forcing away the tension as she brings a hand to her neck. “I don’t need a backrub, Scott,” she mutters, lips a tight line.

He gives a quick frown and tilts his chin to the side. “Not gonna give you a backrub, T.”

Her annoyance morphs into something closer to curiosity. “Then what’re you gonna do?”

Scott rolls his fingers once more toward the bed.

She holds out for another five seconds before stalking over and slumping onto the mattress. Hands raised in surrender, she grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.”

He sinks down next to her, careful when he lays a hand on her thigh. She doesn’t flinch, at least.

“Alright, Scott,” she says skeptically, slinging a leg on the bed as she turns to face him. “You win.”

Her knee is bent so her shin is pressed flat against his outer thigh, and he’s vividly reminded of all the times they’ve been in this exact position before, on cheap motel room beds, on couches tucked away in basements, on the boards at skating rinks. This time is different, though.

“What did you have in mind?”

Scott doesn’t try to hide the grin that spreads over his face.

 

* * *

 

“I feel ridiculous.” Her hands are everywhere—except on him. He can’t help but wonder if that’s intentional.

“Jesus, T, is _this_ a first, too?”

“No, I’ve—” Even in the dim light, Scott sees her cheeks flush bright pink. “Never mind. It’s just weird having… _you…_ down there.”

Scott looks up from his place between her thighs and shrugs. “So picture David Beckham instead.”

A peal of laughter escapes her at that, and he thinks they both might actually make it through this. “Alright, Mr. Beckham,” she says with a less-than-stern expression, “do your worst.”

“ _Mister_ Beckham, eh?” Scott situates himself and guides her creamy white legs over his shoulders. “Didn’t realize you were into that sorta thing, T.”

She shakes her head. “Shut up, Scott.”

He smiles back at her and tugs her toward him, and suddenly neither of them are laughing anymore. "It's just us, Tess."

She nods, clenches her teeth.

“Let me know if you want me to stop.” His voice is low and earnest, and he needs her to know he means it.

She lets out a slow breath. “I trust you.”

Scott thinks it sounds dangerously close to _I love you,_ and something in his chest tightens at that. They’ve said the words before—hundreds of times—but never like this, never without an ice rink and choreographed routines to hide behind, never with her nearly naked and him lying between her legs.

His throat closes up, and before he blurts out something he’ll regret, he dips his head and gets to work.

Tessa gasps as soon as his tongue swipes against her, and if he wasn’t hard already, that sound would’ve done it. She tastes like a strawberry that’s been picked too soon—tart enough to make his mouth water but sweet enough to keep him wanting more.

He muffles a groan and pushes his hips into the mattress and breathes deep, and _boy_ is that a mistake because her scent curls around him, fills his lungs, claims him. There’s a moment when he almost loses himself to it, when he surges forward and grips her tight and laves at her like she’s the antidote to the poison coursing through his veins, like devouring her will put an end to the madness.

But he clings to the fraying threads of control and snaps a barrier into place, a dam separating his body and his soul. God knows the only way he’s surviving this is if he makes himself numb.

It’s easier after that, to exercise restraint, to treat this as a training exercise, to focus on her pleasure as a singular, abstract goal. That _is_ what she asked of him, isn’t it?

Manicured nails scratch against his scalp, and he smiles in spite of himself, glad to have her hands on him again. It’s where they belong, after all.

Scott slides a palm up to her waist, curls his fingers around her so he can feel the way her muscles shift as his tongue tries different things. He hasn’t spent fourteen years learning her body to not use that blessed knowledge to his full advantage. Is it cheating? Probably, but he doesn’t care because he’s got her bucking in the span of thirty seconds. If he wasn’t so devastated by the impermanence of the moment, he’d be proud of himself.

Her hips roll, and he throws an arm over her waist to keep her pinned down, hums in admonishment at her escape attempt. She tightens her legs around his head and squirms, so with his free hand he pushes her knee up and into the mattress, mouth never leaving her cunt.

When she looks down at him, he fixes her with as severe a gaze as he can manage. _Cooperate,_ it says, and he flicks his tongue against her, hard.

Her breath hitches and she flops back with a long, low groan, fists twisting wrinkles into the navy sheets.

He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all, face buried between Tessa’s thighs not five minutes after she told him he wasn’t allowed to kiss her. But then she sighs something in the shape of his name and any hope of this being casual, of it all being some joke, is whisked away along with the air from her lungs.

And because actually thinking about what he’s doing isn’t an option, he pours all of his focus into keeping her just at the edge of pleasure, dialing back the intensity each time he feels her tense up, stringing her along until a firm, flat press of his tongue is nearly enough to tip the balance. Then, when even his breath against her has her bowing off the bed and digging her heels into his back, he stops entirely.

With a whine, she tries to guide his mouth back to where it was moments ago, fingers tangling in his hair, actions ruled by a mindless, insatiable need. Stubbornly, he stays put, though he does flash a prideful smirk and gently squeeze her hip.

The glare she levels at him is downright wrathful.

Scott drops a kiss on the inside of her thigh, relishes in the way her whole body shudders. “Appetizer round, T,” he says with a wink, and then busies himself with kissing his way back up her body, teeth scraping against the jut of her hip, lips dragging over her collar bones.

He’s mildly irritated that she chose to keep the sports bra on, but it’s probably better for both of them if that blue scrap of fabric stays put. What he wouldn’t give to get his mouth around—

He clears his throat. Yep, it’s definitely better if she keeps the bra on.

Tessa drops her head back and rests her hands on his shoulders, a featherlight but insistent weight reminding him of his purpose. Her legs curl around him, pulling him to her, and he does his best not to feel _too_ pleased with himself that she’s desperately trying to grind against the closest part of his body. “Scott,” she whispers, and there’s a twinge of annoyance in her tone.

 _Good._ If he doesn’t get her to outright beg, he’ll consider himself a failure. “Patience,” he says, and ghosts a hand between them, reminds himself that he’s not supposed to kiss her when he dips a finger inside her and finds her slick with want. And then her eyes flutter shut and she grabs his shoulders and moans his name and he has to remind himself _again_ that she said no kissing.

A crack splinters across the dam, but he holds the waters at bay.

He’s more careful as he touches her this time around, knows just how sensitive she is, can tell by the way she’s begging him to _just fuck me already_ that he can’t tease her much longer. She’ll either come sooner than he’d like or she’ll murder him, and neither of those outcomes are ideal.

So he focuses on what makes her go taut underneath him and tries to tune out the rest, tries to forget all the little noises she’s making as he pumps one, then two, then three fingers inside her—noises that he’s sure will haunt his lonely nights for years to come.

“Scott, please,” she chokes out, sweat-slick and trembling, and, _oh,_ that nearly breaks him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he understands that this is ruining him; that he’ll never be able to forget the feel of her thighs pressed against his cheeks; that every time she runs her fingers through his hair he’ll think of the way she greedily pulled him closer; that when he holds onto her hips as they skate he’ll be rocketed back to this moment in time, her body underneath his, his name on her tongue.

She’s his Eden—a garden he never should’ve entered, a fruit he never should’ve tasted, a knowledge he never should’ve sought. In hindsight, he should’ve realized that temptation doesn’t always take the form of shiny, red apples, and ruin doesn’t always come at the hands of an angry, slighted god. Then again, maybe he did know that.

Come morning, he’ll regret this. Come morning, he’ll hate himself.

But right now? Right now he’s going to spend every ounce of energy making sure Tessa Virtue has the best sex of her life.

“As you wish,” he whispers back, withdrawing his fingers so he can retrieve a small foil packet from the nightstand on his right. Her hips chase after him, and he has to bite back a groan when she rocks against the front of his jeans.

 _God,_ she’s so warm. He can feel the heat even through the thick layer of denim, can feel her tugging—

A sort of paralysis steals over him as his belt jingles and Tessa’s fingers work his pants over his hips. Her knuckles brush against the front of his boxer briefs, and he can’t help the whispered, “Tess,” that escapes him.

“What’s wrong?” she asks in a rush of breath, hands going motionless.

It’s like the might of the whole ocean heaves against the rickety dam he’s built. That he ever believed it would hold was nothing save a foolhardy wish, a dream spun of hope and deceit. There’s willful ignorance, and then there’s _this._ He wants to roar with laughter at his own stupidity.

Her features draw together with concern. “You’ve done this before, right?”

 _No,_ he wants to say. _No, I’ve been waiting for you, too._

“Scott?”

But that’s not the truth, now is it?

Tessa places a hand on his cheek, the softest touch that tears him apart so thoroughly he can barely breathe. “Scott?” she says again, voice shrinking in the way it always does when she’s unsure of something.

An aching sort of energy expands in his chest, pushes into his limbs “I…”

She brushes a thumb across his cheek, and it _hurts._

He closes his eyes. “You’re not my…” Why is it so hard for him to say? It’s not like she expects otherwise.

Tessa—sweet, perfect Tessa—slides a hand around the back of his neck and brings their foreheads together. She inhales deep, and his body takes the cue without hesitation. She’s in his blood, his lungs, closer to his heart than his own bones even. “It’s okay,” she says.

He summons the courage to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Fingertips glide over his forehead, catch in his hair. “I’m not.”

It’s not regret, exactly, this feeling burrowing into him, but it’s the same type of sour.

“I don’t think I would be having quite this much fun if I was your first,” she says, and there’s a sly grin on her face.

His heart thuds with such force that he’s sure it’ll crack his ribs.

“Besides,” she continues, “it would feel a little weird if we were _both_ each other’s firsts, don’t you think?”

 _No,_ he wants to say. _No, it would feel right._ But he nods his head and steels his nerves and drives away the feeling of completeness nipping at his psyche. “Last chance to back out, Virtch,” he mutters, half-joking, and shifts his weight to the side so he can shove his underwear down to his knees.

She grips the sides of his neck, eyes wide and sure when she says, “I trust you,” and once again Scott doesn’t think he has the strength to hold back the three simple words knocking against his teeth, words that would wreck this whole illusion.

So he bites down on a corner of the gold-tinged aluminum square and tears the package open with a twist of his head.

This was supposed to be clinical—impersonal as a tour guide leading someone through a new exhibit. But this isn’t a museum, and when it comes to Tessa, he's never been able to feel detached.

Scott’s fingers tremble as he rolls the latex over himself. The dam won’t hold much longer, he knows—has a good idea of what’s going to shatter it completely. A part of his soul shouts at him to _Stop! Stop before it’s too late!_

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. _It’s already too late,_ he thinks.

Tessa’s knee brushes against his ribs with a gentle sort of impatience. “Thank you for this, Scott.”

If he was a better man, he’d stop this now, he’d confess that every girl before her had been a distraction, he’d expose himself as the lovelorn bastard he truly is. But he’s not a better man. He’s a coward and a wretch and he’s terrified that revealing this particular truth will open a chasm between them, one that no bridge can span, no therapy can repair.

So he swallows the _I love you_ on the tip of his tongue and wrests a confident grin onto his face and says, “The pleasure’s all mine.” And when she smiles up at him, he sinks into her with one slow, torturous ease of his hips.

There’s a lyrical beauty to the way she moans, Scott discovers, and that sound alone is nearly his undoing. He breathes through the surge of hunger and fights the impulse to grab her waist and pound into her until they’re both bruised and gasping and spent. Instead, he settles himself in the cradle of her hips and waits—for her to move against him, for her to tell him she’s ready.

It’s an eternity. It’s an instant. It’s breaths and bodies, heartbeats and sweat. It’s _them._

“I thought it was supposed to hurt,” she finally says.

Scott’s lips pull into a satisfied smile. “Only if I haven’t done my job.”

She hums something like understanding, and then starts to roll her hips against him, testing depth and angle and pressure, and he stays as still as he can but, _God,_ she’s about to make him blackout.

“Tess,” he breathes, and she freezes.

“Sorry, does that not feel good?” Her concern is endearing. “I can—”

He laughs. “No. No, you feel ama—” Her walls tighten around him, and his stomach goes taught and he clenches his teeth until the intensity subsides. “Mind if I drive?” he mutters, eyes still screwed shut.

She stops wriggling and relaxes into the mattress, one set of fingers anchored to the nape of his neck, the other digging into his shoulder blade.

Scott positions a hand near her shoulder and the other by her waist, and then cautiously, gritting his teeth against the sensation, he pulls halfway out before sliding all the way back in.

Tessa sucks in a breath. “Oh,” she whispers.

It’s the best compliment he’s ever received.

He does it again. “Good?” he asks, beginning to set a rhythm.

“Yeah,” she breathes, eyes closed, nodding. “ _Really_ good.”

He plants a kiss just below her jaw, hovers his lips close to her ear. “Tell me what you want, Tess.” As he thrusts into her, slow and smooth and deep, he thinks he might’ve accidentally stumbled into heaven. Nothing else could be this perfect.

“Faster,” she says timidly, voice huskier than he’s ever heard it.

He picks up the pace, careful not to let the motion get sloppy.

A low rumble builds in the back of her throat, comes out as a groan of, “Harder,” a moment later.

And _fuck._ He didn’t let himself believe it at first, but the way she moves against him, the way his palms fit over her hips, the way she’s telling him how to get her off—it feels right. It feels right in a way no other experience ever has.

He smothers the revelation and drives into her with as much force as he dares. He knows she said harder, but this is her first time and he doesn’t want to—

“Scott,” she pleads, and he can hear the desperation in her voice.

So he drops to his forearm and uses his other hand to hitch her leg higher up his back and he cups her ass to tilt her hips _just so,_ and when she gasps he knows the change in angle is having the desired effect, and then praise is falling from her lips like rain and, _God,_ he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her more than he wants to live.

The flood waters sweep him out to sea, and he’s content to drown. “I’ve got you,” he says, hips snapping against hers. 

Nails scratch over his spine as a shudder starts in her core. She claws at him, breath torn from her lungs. 

“I’m here.”

And then it happens. Her muscles go loose and she stops breathing and a blissfully strong pressure wave travels down his cock and he’s violently struck with the beauty of her like this, rapturous and _free._ It's devastating.

He groans into her shoulder but doesn’t give in. _Not yet,_ he thinks.  _Not yet._

She’s gasping like it’s her first breath and her limbs are vibrating with release and she’s keening like a songbird and she’s grabbing onto him with all her might—but it’s the soft sigh of his name across her lips that finally does him in, the feel of her breath hot against his chest as he wrings every last bit of pleasure from her body.

He buries his face in her neck as his hips stutter and stall, and she’s all around him, everywhere. Breath and blood and bone and mind, they’re one.

She holds him close, wraps her body around his.

He pants, shivers.

“Scott?” she says softly, in the space between ragged breaths.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you._ He kisses the base of her throat, keeps his treasonous mouth shut.

Tess cards her fingers through his hair, thighs still shaking and locked around his hips. “I’m glad it was you.”

He gulps and shifts his weight onto a forearm, allows himself to look at her, commits it all to memory. Her eyes are a deeper shade of green than he’s ever seen them before. “Happy to be of service,” he says, and he can feel it beginning to happen—the rending of his heart from his chest.

Her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. “I’m serious.” She leans up, and for a heartbreaking moment, he actually expects her to kiss him, but then her lips land on his cheek, and somehow it hurts worse than if she’d slapped him.

He smooths her hair from her face, tucks a dark strand behind her ear. “So am I.” And with that he slides out of her, drawing one final moan from her lips that sears something in his soul.

Silent as a mouse, she wraps herself in a stray blanket and scoots off the bed to retrieve her discarded clothes.

His belt jingles as he tugs his pants back over his hips. “Be right back,” he calls over his shoulder, and disappears into the adjoining bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Heat creeps up his neck, over his cheeks, pools under his eyes.

_Just breathe._

This was a mistake. He thought he could handle it, thought he could do _this one thing_ for her without completely losing himself in the process.

_You knew what this was going into it._

It’s actually astounding how wrong he was.

_Keep it together, Moir._

He pushes out a shaky breath, looks at himself in a foggy mirror, steam billowing into every corner of the room as the shower roars behind him.

“Keep it together,” he mouths at his blurry reflection.

As the story goes, the devil offered Eve a single apple, so rich and bright and beautiful that she couldn’t help but accept. But Scott knows the truth, the story not contained in any book. The devil didn’t trick Eve with fruit, but with a promise—that things could be different, could be more.

He scrubs a hand over his face and steps under the stream of near-scalding water, hangs his head until droplets coat his cheeks, until they camouflage the moisture that was already there before he’d even turned on the faucet.

 

* * *

 

She’s stolen one of his shirts—an old blue and white thing with a faded Maple Leaf’s logo—and tucked herself under his covers. “Would it be weird if I stayed?” Her voice is small, unsure.

His heart thuds in his chest, the hopeful, traitorous thing. “It would be weird if you didn’t,” he replies.

She smiles and burrows deeper in the sheets.

 _One night,_ he tells himself, lets the lie slither through him. He gets to love her like this for exactly one night.

Tessa rolls over as he trades the towel for sleep clothes, but he sees the way her gaze lingers on the low line of his hips just a second too long. He doesn’t bother with a shirt before sliding into the bed next to her.

She immediately curls into him, finds that spot on his shoulder that was made for her head, drapes an arm over his chest. He’s not sure what to do for a long, breathless moment, but then he gives up and holds her close.

A familiar pain stabs through his mind, his soul, but he welcomes it with open arms. He’d gladly be flayed alive if it meant he could fall asleep every night with her hand pressed over his heart.

He’ll settle for one night, though. Just one night.

As his mind stills and his breaths slow and his eyes drift shut and the shadows crowd in, he finally pinpoints the feeling that’s nestled somewhere in his chest. It's peace. It’s home. It’s her.

“Scott?” Her voice is thick and dreary with sleep, and she doesn’t turn her head to look at him.

He rubs a hand over her back, breathes in her scent. “Mm?”

“We’ll still be friends in the morning, right?”

He yawns and tightens his arm around her waist, presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Always.”


	3. all that i could ever be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this is a good time to point out that the chapter titles are from 'surrender' by walk the moon

**_January 2013_ **

_Artic Edge in Canton, MI_

_5:12am_

 

* * *

 

The first thing he notices is that she’s smiling, which is odd given that it’s so early in the morning. The second thing he notices is that she’s glowing, and he wishes with all his heart that he didn’t recognize this particular shade of radiance.

“Morning!” she calls across the empty parking spaces.

One foot on the pavement, Scott grabs his thermos from the center console and steps out of his truck. “Morning,” he grumbles back.

For the second day in a row, her hair is wet _before_ practice and she’s uncharacteristically talkative prior to drinking an entire liter of coffee. They’ve always had a sort of weird psychic bond, but he doesn’t need to be able to read her mind to know why she’s so lively at five am on a Tuesday.

“How’s it going with new guy?” he asks in what he hopes is a casual tone. Still, the question leaves his mouth with an edge.

“Good,” she says, eyes casting downward as her lips pull into a shy smile. “Really good.”

 _How many times?_ he wants to ask. _How many times have you fucked him?_

“What does this make?” Scott shoulders his duffel and shuts the tailgate, careful not to slam it the way his muscles want. “Two months?”

“Two and a half,” she corrects, a lovesick ease carrying the words from her lips.

For the first time in his life, Scott wishes he was bad at math because maybe then he wouldn’t have pieced together that T started dating this dude about a week after the two of them slept together. The realization churns his stomach.

“Things are so… different now,” she continues, oblivious in a way she’s normally not.

Dating’s never been easy for either of them, but it’s been especially difficult for her. Tessa getting a boyfriend is a good thing. She deserves to have a life outside of skating, deserves to be happy. And if he wasn’t a self-centered, envious bastard, he would be happy for her.

He groans inwardly. Why can’t he just be happy for her?

 _You know why,_ comes the cursed voice in his head.

Scott grinds his jaw. If she looks at him for any amount of time, she’ll be able to read the jealousy twisting his features. The question is: Does he care if she knows?

“I just feel so much”—she scrunches her face, tries to find the right word. “Freer,” she finally says with a sigh.

 _Yes,_ he decides a split second before her eyes find his again. He won’t ruin this for her. Just because he’s miserable doesn’t mean she needs to be miserable, too.

She grabs his hand, gives it a squeeze. “You’re a good friend, Scott.”

 _Friends don’t fuck,_ he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. “Glad I could help.” Tessa furrows her brows, so Scott follows up his reply with a quick, less-than-genuine smile. “C’mon,” he says with a forced lightness, pulling his hand from her grip. “We’ve only got the rink until nine.”

 

* * *

  

They’ve never skated worse, and Scott knows he’s to blame.

It’s their fourth straight pass of the twizzles and he’s still out of sync. He waits for the “ _Again.”_ he’s heard so many times this morning, but it never comes. Instead she only sighs, and somehow that’s worse.

The clock rolls over from 7:59 to 8:00.

“Take five,” she says. It’s not a question so much as a statement, and Tessa skates over to the boards without another glance in his direction.

Fat beams of morning light filter through the wide windows behind the bleachers, spill in brilliant white puddles over the carved up rink. Meryl and Charlie will be here soon.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, watches her take a long drink from her water bottle.

Tessa screws the top back on, presses her lips tight, frowns, shakes her head. “Everyone has bad days now and then,” she says, decidedly not meeting his gaze.

He nods, doesn’t point out that he’s had a whole run of them lately.

“Hey,” she says, and her fingers are both a burn and a balm against his flesh. She squeezes his hand, and he looks up at her. “Are you with me?”

 _Forever,_ he wants to say. “Yes,” is what comes out.

She pulls in a lungful of air and gives a cautious smile. “From the top?”

The last hour is better, when he surrenders himself to the performance, lets his emotions pour onto the ice—raw, reckless things that they are. He keeps expecting to look down and see the rink stained red because _surely_ this pain can only come from slicing open a vein.

“Again,” she says. It doesn’t have the same sting to it that it did earlier.

Ten till nine, according to the clock on the wall. Time for one more run through.

He skates in a wide loop as she resets their music, meets her on center ice, lungs burning in an almost pleasant way.

And then the story begins, this dance that’s slowly been killing him more and more each time they perform it.

 _I hope when you’re with him,_ he thinks, dragging his hands over her body as their routine requires, _that all you can think about_ —he stops his lips just shy of pressing against her throat— _is the way you felt when it was me between your thighs._

The final note hits as he falls against her waist, and his hands are around her hips and he can barely breathe and it has nothing to do with exhaustion.

 _Something’s got to change,_ he thinks.

 

* * *

 

He meets Cassandra on a Thursday afternoon in early May. She’s kind and passionate and charming and deserves better than what he can give her.

But something’s got to change. Misery has clung to his bones for months, slowly crushing him from the inside out.

And so he smiles at her and tells himself she doesn’t look like Tess, not really, and when he asks her what she’s doing Saturday night, he's half hoping she’ll turn him down.

She doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> quick reminder that this is RPF, heavy on the F.
> 
> come yell at me on [tumblr](http://yalenayardeen.tumblr.com)
> 
> ETA: thank y'all for the response to this fic! i was hesitant to post it, but i'm glad i did. this dumpster is filled with such delightful company <3
> 
> ETA2: check the comments for a happy ending ;)
> 
> ETA3: because i have no self-control, there's a teeny tiny tessa POV in the (pg. 2) comments now ;)


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